Saturday, June 29, 2013

Boobs. Some have them, others don't. Being in the category of the "have-nots" has always been a struggle. However, it is a burden I must bear...and will continue to bear until I fill up my booby bank with just enough pennies.

The first time (as far as I can remember) I ever saw big, naked breasts was when I saw the movie American Beauty. Do you remember the scene when Thora Birch opens her curtains and flashes her naked tots at her next door neighbor? I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, self, those boobs look really weird"... only to find out that they were not weird at all. In fact, they were just actual boobs.

So that's what they look like.

Interesting.

Alright.

I turned to my friend next to me. "Holy shit, those are some weird looking boobs." She rolled her eyes. Now it all makes sense, of course. She was part of the "haves" of boobage action. In fact, looking back, she can probably be considered the elite. Bitch had like quadruple fucking Ds.

I also remember thinking about how my bedroom window is directly across from my male neighbor's bedroom TOO. However, in order to see mine he would either need a telescope or some intense binoculars. I ultimately decided against it.

I later encountered more voluptuous chesticles when I was finally allowed to watch the movie Titanic. I remember the scene where Leo Dicaprio draws Rose like one of his French girls wearing "this...only this."

Rose's boobs in the movie seemed to have backed up the theory that Thora Birch's boobs were perfectly normal in size and shape. This realization resulted in further plunging me into a life full of hopelessness and booblessness.

I discovered that men actually enjoy these large things and without them--well, you are kind of screwed. I was reminded via AOL Instant Messenger by some lovely classmates of mine that my small tots were but one of the reasons why the sixth grade boys were not hollerin' atcha girl (my chest, my acne & because I was just plain ugly they told me). "Was I worth nothing more than my bra size?" young Biddy Queen pondered.

I suppose not.

Of course, there was always the option of stuffing my bra with tissues but I always found that kind of lame. I tried it out once, I will admit. However, I made the big mistake of stuffing it on a day that I had a serious cold. The constant need to blow my nose overtook my desire to enhance my breasticles. By the end of the day, my tissues were put to a different use and my chest was back to their normal, pathetic size. In hindsight, I guess I could have just put the used tissues back into the bra if I was really going to commit but I suppose that is pretty disgusting.

The boob scene in Titanic also gave me unrealistic expectations about guys. I had myself thinking up until...yesterday basically... that I, too, would find my Jack and he will paint me naked like one of his french girls. I can not tell you how many times I brought men back to my dormitory, got out a pencil and paper and whipped off my clothes only to find that men were not feeling so artistically inspired at the moment. I even bought the fucking necklace for fuck's sake. But no, they were just not having ANY of it.

As time has passed and I have lived with this condition for the past 22 years of my existence, I have given much thought to the titty problem. I feel that we give boobs and (more importantly) the women who possess those boobs way too much credit. Why is it that I see misguided biddies every day showing off their cleavage like they are the only girl in town with boobs?

We get it, you have boobs. You see them, I see them... we all see them. The thing about it is, we have all seen boobs. We are completely desensitized to this image of boobage. Everywhere we look we find some form of breast forcing itself on us. Insisting that we look at it, insisting that we like it, insisting we get boners from it.

It's kind of creepy if you think about it. Men's obsession with boobs likely stems from some weird sexual maternal desire. Do we all just want to fuck our moms? Is titty fucking and titty sucking just some sick, incestual fantasy quest we all have about boning our mommies?

I for one am not too fond of this sentiment. Perhaps I am a little bit lucky that I was born without the fun bags. I refuse to take part in any kind of mommy issues that these numb nuts seek out so desperately.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Oh my hot diggity damn. Miley is back and she is not fuckin' around this time. She is busting out all of the tricks for this new music video.

Watch it here:

Miley Cyrus seems to have learned a new kind of "hoedown-throw-down," if you catch my drift.

She definitely popped it, she most certainly locked it but I am not so sure that she polka-dotted it. Fortunately for us there was no countriying involved. And... the jury is out on the hip-hopping. But rest assured, she twerked it. In fact, Miley twerked until the cows came home.

First we see Miles turn up a dildo looking object (anyone else think dildo? just me? okay...). Then, gritting at the camera, she casually applies a modest looking grill to her bottom teeth. "Interesting," I thought to myself. I did not know where she was going with this one but, "we'll see," I thought to myself. I always try to give Miles the benefit of the doubt. It was quite curious, though. I was very curious about this fashion decision.

Things seem to escalate quickly. Miley is suddenly lying on the floor, half of her head hidden under some frilly comforter. Perhaps this is taking place in her grammy's house? Regardless, she is wearing some white jump suit, singing about...god knows what. (Sidenote: after the third time around watching, muting the music was crucial to me not blowing my brains out).This is followed by an image of a young woman with smoke ejactulating out of her vagina. Happens to the best of us, I suppose.

Do not look now but there goes Miley writhing around on a bed, humping a few throw pillows. This is a motif throughout the entire music video. Miley begs to get boned. Demands to be as a matter of fact.

Just when I thought Miley had lost her mind, my faith in her sanity was beginning to be restored when she busted out the good ol' eos egg lip gloss. I gotta give it to her, the girl knows what is good for the chapped lips...both pairs of lips apparently.

A french fry skeleton being smashed, half naked people splashing about in a pool, Miley spanking a girl (...then having the girl spank her back), fake fingers being cut and more nonchalant rolling around in a bed. The video is exhausting... especially since I have probably watched at least 1,000,000 of the 21,667,799 hits on youtube. The things I do for my blog, the lengths I go to make fun of celebrities. Quite tiresome.

Okay, nap over. What do I see now? Miley walking some taxidermied animals... OBVIOUSLY. Animal lover, she is not. However, doll lover, without a doubt. Despite Miley's gyrating, twerking and skimpy attire, she seemed to have not been able to score very much ass at this supposed party in which she refuses to "stop" (stop what? We never actually find out). Miley is not discouraged by a slow night (she is nothing if she is not resourceful). A doll will do just fine as she and Miley share a romantic moment in the pool. After all, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta.

I probably would have stuck to a private session with the body pillow but no judgments here.

But... I have some judgments about some other subjects that Miles has brought up. Anyone remember the whole Miley bong scandal? Well, even to this day Miley is sticking to her story: "IT WAS ONLY SALVIA!" Hannah Montana would not smoke weed! However, cocaine is a different story. Right before her cute little doll make-out session Miley states that "everyone in line in the bathroom/ trying to get a line in the bathroom/ we all so turned up here/ getting turned up yeah yeah." Lyrical genius aside, I think these words prove that the bong incident is a moot point. We clearly have bigger fish to fry here with Miley's drug use.

Ladies with big animal backpacks bounce around for a bit, Miley puts on a hat, and a very hungry young man rubs a piece of bread on his face before eating it...as bread should be eaten, always.

But then, then I reach my breaking point. There's only so much I can take. Miley has dishonored the art of pinata breaking entirely. Pinata breakage is a very serious, very special act. (There is a very intimate relationship between man and a pinata). And here we have Miley making a complete mockery of it by turning a traditional act into some sexual girl on girl male wish fulfillment (but not really because she looks pretty icky). Is anything sacred anymore?

I have always been a Miley fan but this is our official break up my dear Madame Cyrus. I feel bad and everything that your dad is a creepy motherfucker, trying to get in to your pants, but you are an embarrassment to biddies everywhere. I will always have "The Climb" to inspire me during those rough times and "Party in the USA" for when I'm feeling sexily patriotic but for now we must part ways.

Sars.

XOXO,

JuLeS

P.S. Just for the record, this break up means I am done with you AND Hannah Montana. You can not get the best of both worlds despite what you insist.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

But don't actually because that can lead to disgusting things like pregnancy... and I hear that pregnancy typically leads to things like children or something.

But what I am REALLY trying to say is fuck the movie Juno. The people who created the film should be personally thanked by the children/mistakes of teen parents who were a result of misinformed (a.k.a. stupid) high schoolers everywhere watching this movie. Some idiots had to learn the hard way but I am almost positive that your parents will not be as thrilled as Juno's when you inform them that some 80 pound poopface got you pregnant. They will not take part in your witty teen pregnancy jokes and they will probably not allow you to wander over to your future child's adoptive parents house willy-nilly to hook up with the dad. Be prepared for that.

In fact, it is very possible that upon hearing the news of your spermination, they may attempt to abort mission. I suggest avoiding lingering around staircases. Mom may just go ahead and push ya down, trying to take care of things the good ol' fashioned way. In a nut shell, chances are they will not be too proud. There will not be any parties thrown anytime soon in your honor...

And trust me, after your pregnancy you will not be sitting outside of Michael Cera's house, playing guitar and being just...so happy about life.

My parents would have either locked me in the basement or sent me to a convent. Right now I'd be saying a couple of rosaries and noshing on some eucharist and shit.

MTV has been shamelessly exploiting teenage women and making some serious bank on condom mishaps for years. Perhaps I am just salty because I did not think of the idea first but it all does not seem too kosher. I mean, they are on television for making the mother of all high school boo-boos. In a time where we have access to these masterpieces like 16 and Pregnant and Teen Mom, the public perception of teen pregnancy has become more fucked up and complicated.

On one hand, many watch the show to make themselves feel better about their shitty, mundane (but child-less!) lives. Teen Mom seems to represent, to some, how much worse their lives could have been if the pull-out method proved ineffective that one time. At the end of each episode, the viewer breathes a sigh of relief and thanks God (or whatever) that it is not them. On the other hand, the public seems to want to glorify these women. We put them on our magazines as if they are some kind of super-star celebrity. Hey girls, look at these women, they got pregnant and then they got famous. You do the math.

"Teen pregnancy is now my ticket to Hollywood?" some dumb biddies ask themselves. They envision red carpets, Academy Awards and their name in lights."...and the award for the most troubled teen mom goes to..."

Roll your eyes all that you want at the sentiment but the sad truth is that these dull, uneducated women have led and will lead more economically successful lives than most of us. If that is not a depressing thought, I do not know what is. Where was MTV when I was in high school? I could have used a little exploitation. I am perfectly fertile as far as I know.

You may be thinking, "Wow, this bitch is mad random with this post." Allow me to explain. My thoughts on the subject were inspired by an article I found which describes a new anti-teen pregnancy ad campaign.

OMG! Is that? Could that be? Is that really what I THINK it is? A pregnant man?! How unexpected...how painfully shocking. Now here is the anti-pregnancy advertisement that will put an end to all the madness. Nothing kills a teen boner like a photo-shopped picture of a pregnant guy. Right??

My teen boner is still raging. Mission, failed.

I have a better idea. I know just the trick. I submit we take pictures of large, gaping vaginas (taken right after women give birth) and post them everywhere. Every block, every corner, every fucking hallway in the high school should have a picture of a huge vagina. Also, accompanying those enormous vaginas, should be pictures of genital warts. The large, oozing pustules will perform a boner genocide. Killing boners near and far...as any good pustule does.

These pictures will be a constant reminder to teenagers everywhere that if they do not fucking wrap their shit up before they decide to do the nasty, this will be their reality.

Sidenote: I have never actually witnessed a vagina post-birth but... I can only imagine it is not so lovely.

Large, gaping vaginas and oozing pustules...think about it next time you want to skip the condom kids.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

...it would sing Coldplay. The queefs would belt the words of "Yellow" and "Viva la Vida," bringing tears to your eyes and vomit to your mouth...as Coldplay always does.

Look at the chunks I just blew, look how they shine for you, and everything you do... yeah, the chunks were all yellow.

Today, I raise an important issue. This is an issue that has always been critical in my life. Growing up in Westchester around a lot of ignorant, upper-class white kids has always been rather confusing. Rich, white Westchester people seem to have a language that only rich, white, Westchester people can understand. As someone who is somewhat of an outsider to this "culture," so to speak, it took some time to fully understand just what these shit dicks were speaking of. Specifically, their music choices, choices that I have found both disturbing and disgusting.

Coldplay is just the tip of the iceberg. Ignorant folk near and far have listened to Coldplay with some kind of inexplicable belief that they are different, or "Indie." Chris fucking Martin, would you like some cheese with that whine? His high-pitched voice complains throughout every song. It as if he is begging, pleading to be cooter punched by yours truly.

Then there is a beast of a different nature. That beast is called Dave Matthews Band. Dave Matthews Band is a disease somewhat comparable to Taylor Swift. In some ways, the Dave disease is a lot more dangerous and perilous. I hope you do not mind me referring to him on a first name basis, his fans seem to think it is appropriate and...totally not confusing.

"Yo bro, wanna see Dave with me this weekend?"

Dave Franco? Dave Chappelle?... Dave your next door neighbor? Dave your drug dealer? Dave your pet hermit crab? "Who in the fuck is Dave?" was the question that I asked myself for years on end. Facebook statuses would refer to this mysterious Dave and people would respond with complete understanding of who he was. Now that I know who "Dave" is, I would like nothing more than to go back in time and personally cunt punt every single person who has ever referred to Dave Matthews Band as "DAVE."

...and that's for reaaaaaal.

That's like me saying, "I'm gonna go see Nick," when I saw the musical geniuses that ARE the Jonas Brothers in concert. Despite what I may say sometimes, Nick Jonas and I are not on a first name basis... and I think it is a fair assumption for me to make that most likely none of you idiots know Dave Matthews personally. He doesn't know your name. He doesn't care about you. He doesn't love you.

...and, no, if Dave is anything like Nick Jonas, he will not give you a vile of his urine for "scientific purposes." Believe me, I have tried.

Dave's raw and powerful quotes about life can be seen on every single shit dicks "About Me" on Facebook. Or perhaps, if you so please, you may just take a gander at my Senior Yearbook. Weirdly enough, every single graduate in my year had the same thought! Again and again we were reminded for nearly twenty pages that "Life is short but sweet for certain."

Not even true. Life is not short, it's long as fuck. It just goes on and on... and on. And "sweet" you say, Dave? I'm not so certain about that. Life is a struggle every fucking single day. People will crash into your car, people will cheat on you and your iPhone will fall out of your pocket and shatter for fuck's sake. Dave Matthews Band will never prepare you for those hardships. Never. That's what we have Miley for... and Avril Lavigne.

You can find my picture in the yearbook with the quote "Life is long...and complicated... and horrible." That's an original. You may quote me.

Also, one more thing, Dave wants you to "Take what you can from your dreams, make them real as anything." Make sure you do that. This kind of reminds me of that quote from my fourth grade class "Reach for the moon, even if you miss, you will and amongst the stars." So fucking true.

Basically, think back and try to remember every cliche line you have ever heard. Dave probably said it. (And if it was not Dave, then you probably read it in The Perks of Being A Wallflower).

Some other honorable mentions are: Jack Johnson, John Mayer and Jason Maraz. They are a disgrace to J names everywhere.

Questions, I pose them:

How does Jack Johnson not bore himself to sleep while singing his own music?

How does John Mayer not kick himself in the ass for being such a douche? My body is a wonderland? Daughters will turn into mothers?

...And Jason Maraz, your music either belongs in an elevator or at a ritual sacrificial ceremony, I can't decide which.

Now, time for a little One Direction to lighten the mood. A little 1D, if you will.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Last weekend I was flying back home from Miami. I was sitting behind two middle aged women who were reminiscing about their sexy times on the beach and "in da club" when suddenly they were interrupted by quite a disturbing sight. Two men (who they assumed were, as they put, "playing for the other team") asked them for directions to their seat. After the men walked away, the women turned around to look at me, quite rattled, and confessed, "girl, I have two boys and you better believe I be prayin' every night that they ain't windin' up like dat. Oh girl, I pray." I guess they didn't get the news, but the Boy Scouts are kind of okay with the whole gay thing now... and if it's good enough for the Boy Scouts then it sure as HELL should be good enough for the rest of us.

Recently, The Boy Scouts (Cub? Eagle? Whatever the fuck you call these shit dicks) have decided to possibly revoke their blanket "no homo" policy. Boy Scouts everywhere seem to have been forced into the 21st century. An action that has most likely left most of them feeling scared, disenfranchised... and a little gay.

The Boy Scouts of America have always fancied themselves the straightest motherfuckers on the planet. Their "no gay" policy is understandable, of course. The first rule of being a straight male is that there should be absolutely NO homosexuals present during the weekly circle jerk. Come on now, that would be just plain gay.

But now, now they can't even beat their meat in the peace and privacy of their fellow scouts. It's like nothing is sacred anymore. After a long day of camping and tying knots, (or whatever it is that these Boy Scouts supposedly do) all a dude really wants to do is wack it with his bros, but

...now he's gotta worry about gayness.

Being a former Girl Scout myself, I personally have always been biased against the Boy Scouts. From Daisy, to Brownie, to Junior Girl Scout, I worked my way up. I paid my dues bitches, or rather, my parents gave me the money to pay them. I worked my ass off for those badges. I sang to old bitches, served poor people food and even camped in the wild (well, in the Holiday Inn). During our camping trip, we learned some valuable survival methods. While the Boy Scouts were learning how to speak to animals in the wild, how to suck a dick, how to survive in the woods with just a whoopee cushion and climb trees, (again, not entirely sure about what they do exactly) we had bigger fish to fry. We learned how to order room service, file our nails and straighten our hair. A girl needs to learn how to get by in the world using only her looks, someone else's credit card and her vagina, of course. Duh.

Now I must mention the cookies. Oh my fucking god, do NOT even get me started on the cookies.

Okay, you got me started.

Now, I am a diligent business woman and like any good business woman should, I took to the mean streets of Westchester. With nothing but a cookie menu and a dream, I ventured door to door with my mom. A shrewd Girl Scout always did two things during cookie selling season: looked cute and lied out of her ass. Hey, it doesn't kill ya to throw on a little Lip smacker and squirt a little Limited Too body mist. Who wants to buy cookies from an ugly, smelly, little Girl Scout?

Answer: nobody. In short, play it safe and just try your best to look like a baby prostitute. Also, lying, is always a plus. As far as I was concerned, Thin Mints are diet cookies.

"They have negative calories... sort of like celery. You should be interested in that kind of thing."

I also, falsely informed every buyer that all of our profits went to animal shelters that care for sick and abandoned puppies. As you can see, I would have stopped at nothing to get the first place prize. The Girl Scout who sold over 500 cookies won a stuffed animal. Stakes were high, and winner took all.

Long story short, I never won the stuffed animal...or even the shitty second place prize (which was a keychain). I never really got over my loss. I never was able to really forgive myself for not coming through for all of those imaginary abandoned puppies. Ashamed, I laid my Girl Scout Sash to rest. I can not eat a Samoa cookie to this day without tasting defeat.

At the end of the day this rivalry of Boy Versus Girl Scouts can actually be settled rather simply. Boy Scout popcorn is no where near as delicious as Girl Scout cookies. This is an undeniable fact and anyone who tries to say otherwise is disgusting and selfish. And above all, they are are ignorant.

On the subject of ignorance, let me go back to the story I opened this post with. These two women who have been praying for heterosexual sons have been wasting their time. They need a lesson or two from yours truly. Pray for more important things, dammit. For example: pray that Doritos will make their 3-D chips again (fuckin' delicious), pray that Ashlee Simpson will make another album that is poignant as her first or, EVEN BETTER, pray that Justin Timberlake will let you blow him for just a few minutes (just the tip, JT? Please? The balls? Something?)

Or if you really want to pray for something worthwhile, maybe ask that one day our children will grow up in a world where there are no "other teams." Or perhaps, a world where a person does not find it appropriate to tell a complete stranger that they disapprove of someone because of who they fuck, as if it is assumed that there is some sort of camaraderie between us because we are both female and like the dick. Because, truth be told, from where I am standing, the two of us could not be more opposite.

Also, how the fuck do you know I do not like eating the puss?

We all know what happens when you assume.

To the Boy Scouts of America: in the words of my girl and singing sensation Jojo: it's just too little, too late, a little too wrong, and I can't wait.

Conclusion: your shit is weak, I can tie a knot better than all of you numb nuts and you're ignorant.